never tried flying and spreading my wings
by abbean
Summary: You've never been very attracted to poets, though. Never been very impressed. The calculatedness of the sweet words they spin puts you off, makes you long all the more for someone who applies his cunning to invention instead, who wears his heart on his sleeve, who seldom looks before he leaps and considers the heavens his only limit.


**i've spiraled into the phin/ferb layer of pnf hell. this work would not exist without revenblue, who you can tell inspired me by my use of second person. hopefully longer things are to come in the future. if you like this fic, feel free to let me know as well as ask for the link to my brand-spanking-new phinerb discord. peace xo**

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"I really don't know how he does it." Phineas tilts his head, and you use the hand not wrapped around your scotch to gesture vaguely behind you, at Buford. He's chatting up not one, but three equally pretty girls on the other side of the bar; from the leather-bound journal in his hand and the swooning of his audience, you figure he's reading some of his writing, or maybe an excerpt from one of the Romantics. (He's _such _a diehard when it comes to Keats.)

"Oh, that," Phineas chuckles. He takes a contemplative sip of his soda. "Mm, I don't know, Ferb. I guess sometimes you just want someone who'll recite you poetry."

Maybe, you think as you study your reflection in the bit of golden liquid left at the bottom of your glass. You've never been very attracted to poets, though. Never been very impressed. The calculatedness of the sweet words they spin puts you off, makes you long all the more for someone who applies his cunning to invention instead, who wears his heart on his sleeve, who seldom looks before he leaps and considers the heavens his only limit. He smiles at you from his place right by your side, the way he always has, and the hanging fixture above the counter bathes him in light as warm as sunshine.

"There's this guy," you say. The words spill out without any forethought, your brain and your tongue gone languid from the whiskey and your heart full to bursting. "I don't think I'm being very subtle—when it comes to how I feel, I mean—but he doesn't seem to have any idea how _crazy _about him I am. And normally he's an open book, right—" Phineas nods, completely unsuspecting, "—yet for some reason, I can't gauge how _he _might feel about _me_. It's quite frustrating."

"It sounds like it," he agrees, face pinched with sympathy. Just as you said: no idea. For all he knows, you're talking about a classmate across the pond, or a barista at that new coffeehouse he took you to earlier this week, or _Meap_. He reaches out and pats your arm as you bring your drink to your mouth to drain the rest in one. "Maybe you could try... I don't know, being even _less _subtle? I mean, between you and me, bro, you're kind of hard to read—sometimes even for _me_, and I've had more practice than just about anyone. Well, except Dad, probably."

You hum noncommittally, lowering your empty glass. "I don't know, Phineas," you tell him. "Openly and earnestly expressing my emotions isn't exactly in my wheelhouse, as you probably already know."

"I know you can do it!" he says, blue eyes gleaming. "It's easy! Just sit him down, kind of like how we're sitting now, and maybe take his hand or something, and be like, 'Hey, I just need you to know, I'm kind of in love with you. Like, really freaking crazy about you.' That's all there is to it, really."

"Really," you echo, caught between skepticism and hope. Could it truly be that simple? His love for complexity when it comes to your creations borders on addiction, but for matters of the heart, he seems to prefer the opposite: the straightforward, easy approach. You swallow hard and risk a question. "Is that how you would want to hear it, Phineas?"

"Definitely," he answers, nodding sagely.

You wait for him to finish his soda before you clear your throat. He turns to you, all big blue eyes and parted lips, red hair glowing like a fiery halo in the light, and it's no trouble at all to place your hand on top of his and squeeze his fingers—cool and chapped, but steady all the same. He meets your eyes with an expectant smile.

"I understand this might seem out of nowhere," you begin, and your voice exceeds your expectations when it doesn't tremble. "We've known each other all our lives, almost, and our relationship has always stayed safely within the confines of 'friends' and 'brothers.' But, for quite some time now... perhaps the moment I first left for school... I've felt _different_. And I know that it might be inappropriate, that it might make you uncomfortable—" You choke down your rambling before it gains headway, your throat dry as the Unpainted Desert. "Well, you can feel however you want to about me, of course. But as far as how _I _feel about _you_... I—I'm crazy about you. I love you. I, for better or worse, am in love with you. I love you."

You're standing on a precipice as you search his face, wondering if he'll pull you back or push you over.

"Wow," he murmurs, blinking, soft with amazement. Then a dazzling grin appears. "Holy crap! That was _fantastic_, Ferb! Say it all just like that, and there's no _way _he can not notice!"

Waves of emotion crash over you, one by one—bewilderment, disbelief, mortification, disappointment, despair—yet, true to form, you act on none of them, choosing instead to fold your arms on the bar and hide your face in them as a pounding starts behind your eyebrows.

"Goodnight, Ferb," Phineas says blithely, and you groan.


End file.
